


No Straight Roads

by acta_est_fabula



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity-centric, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Study, Coping, Denial, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:07:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29343306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acta_est_fabula/pseuds/acta_est_fabula
Summary: It's been two years since Wilbur's death, and Techno's felt restless ever since he graduated high school. Now, after spending two years studying abroad, he's back in the States. There's a lot of things cluttered in his mind, and many more that he's not ready to deal with.Then he meets Quackity, his bombastic, beanie-wearing dormmate, who proceeds to turn his life on its heel and shake things up for him completely.(In other words, their budding friendship while both of them figure things out in college.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Technoblade & TommyInnit, Technoblade & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 20
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Few things I'd like to preface:  
> -All characters/content creators in this fic are written based off their online personas. This is not reflective of their actual selves.  
> -If you're here looking for smut, I suggest you leave. There won't any of that there. Nor will there be any romantic relationships. Shipping real life people without their consent isn't cool.  
> -This is a Character Study College AU. I have a loose outline for the plot, but it's subject to change.  
> -Characters and tags will be added as more chapters are added.  
> -Feedback is fine, as long as it's constructive.  
> -If any of the CCs feel uncomfy or express discontent, I will change the fic/take it down accordingly.  
> I make Dream SMP analysis/HC vids at [here.](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC4BbrgaPMd56C-ZK8q1WpEg) Come check it out (support is appreciated). Happy reading!

“Just a medium coffee please.”

The barista hums noncommittally, penciling down his order with a quirk of her thick eyebrows. “And that’ll be all?” she drawls, pale heavy eyelids rimmed with dark circles eyeing him critically, as if to say _That’s it? Just a coffee?_ “Nothing else then?”

“No thank you,” Techno replies curtly. 

With a torpid shrug, the barista punches his order into the cash register, bracing one arm against the oaken wood countertop. “That’ll be $4.95 please.”

The pinkette grimaces, hands reaching into his trench coat’s pockets to pull out his flimsy leather wallet. He’d been back in America for nearly two weeks now, and it still boggled him how expensive some food products were compared to that of Shanghai’s--which weren’t exactly cheap either, to be fair. _But $5 for a cup of half-decent coffee is pushing it a bit,_ Techno thinks wearily. Still, there isn’t much to do about it as he wordlessly hands over the scratched cobalt card, the barista plucking it from his pinched fingers with her own darkened knobby ones. “What’ll be the name for the order then?”

“Tec-Wilbur.”

“Say that again? You’ll have to speak up a bit, I didn’t quite catch it the first time.”

“Wilbur,” Techno snaps. The name doesn’t belong to him, but it’s simpler to write than his own, and less messy, too. It also has the benefit of not getting a questioning glance from whoever happens to be serving him at the time.

“It’ll be a couple of minutes then. We’ll call your name when it’s ready over there,” the barista says, gesturing towards the other end of the counter. “Next customer in line please!”

With a small nod, the pinkette takes a few short strides to a bench table, deliberately avoiding a rambunctious group of teens who definitely have had too much caffeine this late in the day. He sits heavily, plopping his messenger bag onto the vinyl floor. If Techno had been a different person maybe, he might’ve tacked on an extra pasty at the sound of the disappointed lilt of her voice--perhaps the strawberry tart like the ones Phil would make for him and Wilbur when they were younger on particularly rainy days. Maybe he’d even order a complimentary hot chocolate to wash it down, for nostalgia’s sake. Back then, the two of them would try to stuff as many marshmallows as they could into those thick ceramic mugs they had lying around, just for the hell of it.

“But I’m not that person anymore,” Techno mutters to himself. With a sigh, he brings his hands up to his hair, slipping loose the long, rosy strands free from the elastic hair tie. A sharp exhale accompanies the vigorous shaking of his head as Techno glances out the window, methodically bundling his hair to rebind it--not unlike how one would bundle together sticks for firewood. It’s only mid-August, but already signs of fall are leaving their mark on the bustling city. A brisk breeze sweeps up honey-and-vermillion colored leaves, blowing them away like pieces of confetti. Weak rays of sunlight pour in through the tinted windows; a little girl and her mother pass by his field of vision, the child clinging to her parent, her other hand tightly clenching three brightly-colored balloons. Techno’s eyes follow the pair as they stop in front of the coffee joint, where the girl seems to be tugging incessantly on her mother’s sleeve, the two locked into a squabble. After a few moments, the mother, who now looks resigned, pushes open the door, the bell on the door ringing as the mother-daughter duo made their way over to the cash register, the younger gleefully squealing as she breaks away to press her hands against the smudged glass of the pastry case.

“For Wilbur?”

The hacking cough that follows the question snaps Techno out of his reverie. He stands slowly, then begins shouldering past the small crowd that’s gathered in front of the countertop as customers come to pick up their drinks. The tall man mumbles a ‘thank you’ to the stout, balding employee that hands him the small paper cup rimmed with a ring of cardboard. Large, slim pale fingers tightly clutch his order as Techno carefully navigates through the sea of people, trying not to spill the scaldingly hot liquid. A small sigh of relief escapes him when he finally seats himself again, long legs crossing over in a half-hearted attempt to make himself more comfortable.

As he sips the slightly bitter drink, Techno finds himself peering around the slightly crowded shop. People watching was a habit that he had picked up while he studied abroad, spending many-a-hours lounging lazily in various teahouses. That wasn’t to say he found his living spaces uncomfortable; Techno had rather enjoyed the drab, unfurnished apartment he’d been provided with. It saved him the effort of having to decorate--something he wasn’t too keen on doing in the first place. But there was something uniquely fascinating about sitting out in an open courtyard on a rickety wooden chair, watching people go about their lives and converse in a foreign language he could only vaguely understand. The general atmosphere tended to be more lively and less subdued compared to the run-of-the-mill Starbucks. It was not an uncommon sight to see a group of rowdy men--who he suspected to be mixing beer along with their tea, seeing as they tended to get louder and louder as time went on--spend hours playing cards and talking, with the thick fragrance of smoke wafting from their mouths and cheaply made cigarettes (Techno learned later that they had a name for these kinds of people: “ 烟鬼”, which literally translated to “smoke fiends”. He’d laughed a bit at the blunt label: crude, but effective.) Mothers would bring their children along with them on the weekends. They’d sit under the shade of a table umbrella, chattering about the latest pieces of gossip they’d picked up, while their young ones ran around, and shouted as their tiny feet pattered alongside the stone and brick walkways. 

“But Techno,” he mutters to himself sardonically, “what’s there not to love about rude baristas, sub-par coffee, and bustling Americans during rush hour?”

As the minutes go by, the already cramped establishment only grows more and more crowded, with the noise level swelling along with it. A ragtag group of construction workers enters, their faces pink more from physical exertion than the slight sunshine breaking through the grey sea of clouds. The pinkette bites back a snarl as a stern-faced greying woman roughly elbows him as she heads towards the trash can, not even stopping to utter an apology. He shakes his head in annoyance. _Americans_. It’s no wonder that they have such a bad reputation in the eyes of other countries.

Seeing as it’s a futile attempt to try and go back to his observations, Techno reaches down and hauls the canvas satchel onto the wooden desktop, rummaging through various notebooks before extracting a black leather notebook. As he jostles around, he takes care not to make any drastic movements; the umber coat is a bit too small on him, stretching slightly uncomfortably around his broad shoulders.

After all, Wilbur had always been the shorter of the two of them.

With a flourish, he uncaps the fountain pen, turning to the next blank page. Calligraphy is another thing that he’d added to his repertoire of skills while abroad. The art form is therapeutic, with the rich ink flowing freely from the brush, swirling and circling on sheets of paper, forming words that are barely legible to him. He’d never really made an effort to learn the written language while he was there--it had seemed like too much effort for it to be worth it. Still, Techno can appreciate good penmanship. Before he flew back to the states, the pinkette had bought a few notebooks lined with thick sheets of rice paper while perusing the assortment of shops at the local market. Unfortunately, the complimentary brush that came along with it got ruined in baggage processing--though thankfully, none of the books were ruined or creased. For now, a pen would have to suffice.

Slowly, the world around him fades away, the incessant shouting and yelling dulling until there’s just white noise that surrounds him. Soon, all that’s left is the book in front of him, and the inky wand pressed in his right hand. Techno presses the pen lightly against the paper, then with a flick of his wrist, he begins to draw. It starts off simple with small, plain strokes as he adjusts to the rigidity of the tool. It’s nowhere near as elegant as fine animal hair; he’ll have to order an actual calligraphy pen at some point, but it’ll do though. 

As he finds himself moving back into the rhythm, the strokes grow longer and bolder, forming characters that he’s committed to memory with how many times he’s written them.

光盘. 吉他. 蜜蜂. 翅膀.家庭. 

Music discs. Guitar. Bees. Feathered wings.

 _Family_.

At some point, the wavily printed characters turn into barely legible scrawling in English. Line upon line fills the page, as he paints, losing himself--

Until a rough tug on hair jerks him roughly back into the present. 

He gasps, all of his senses returning to him at once, slamming into him with the weight of a freight train. Suddenly, the dim fluorescent lights are far too bright, the dull smell of coffee beans and shaved wood overpowering his nostrils, the bitter aftertaste of the cheaply made coffee acrid in his mouth. 

The tall man takes a deep breath, counts to three, before turning his head slowly to see the girl from earlier standing behind him, one hand clutching the end strands of his messy ponytail. “How can I help you?” Techno asks, before wincing at the inadvertently harsh bite in his voice. She doesn’t seem to notice though.

“Mister Mister! How did you get your hair like that?”

“Like what?”

“Pink!” She says, gesturing to the locks of hair that are still in her right hand. Gently--or at least, what he hopes is gentle--Techno removes tiny fingers from his hair, before replying.

“I dyed it.”

The girl gasps, though he isn’t sure what exactly he said to warrant such a dramatic response. “You’re not supposed to say that word!”

“What word?” He asks, tilting his head in confusion. 

“Dyed,” she responds, toeing the ground.

 _Dyed? What’s wrong with the word_ _dyed?_

“Mommy gets sad whenever I say that word,” the girl says, jumping slightly before craning her head upwards to meet his eyes. “She doesn’t like it when I bring up Daddy.”

_Oh._

“Just because two words have the same sound doesn’t mean they’re the same word,” Techno says, awkwardly. “Dyed just means that I added some colors to my hair using pigments.” He fumbles with his hair messily as he racks his head desperately to try and come up with something reassuring to say. Out of everyone in his family, he’s the least suited for this scenario. Social situations have never been his forte, much less comforting a child at that.

“Pig-a-ments?” Her face scrunches up at the unfamiliar word. Then she giggles. “Your hair is pink, like a pig! Piggy hair!”

Well, at least she’s not thinking about her deceased father, which is a significant improvement. “Yes,” Techno replies, wryly. “Like a pig.” It is a fair comparison.

“When I grow up,” the girl begins solemnly, “I’m going to grow purple hair. Purple’s my favorite color because I like grape popsicles. And Skittles.” She gestures towards her twin pigtails bobbing up and down. “They’ll be pink, so we match!” Her eyes catch onto the leather-bound book, still wet and fresh of ink. “What are you writing? Can I see?”

“Janelle!”

Before Techno can utter a half-hearted refusal, the girl’s mother appears behind her, balloons and pastries in tow. She sharply yanks her daughter away, who in turn lets out a sharp squeal of protest. “I told you not to wander off by yourself, it’s dangerous! And what did I say about talking to strangers?”

The pinkette raises his hands in what he hopes is a placating manner. “It’s alright.” And then, louder: “She was just curious about this,” gesturing towards his bubblegum pink ponytail. 

The mother sighs heavily. “Sorry about that. She’s been obsessed with trying to change her hair color ever since that new cartoon show aired, the one with the various superheroes? Just last week, she dipped her hair into food coloring, which mind you, took hours to wash out young lady! ” She punctuates that last statement with a glare.

“I wanted it to be purple!” Janelle chimes in helpfully.

“I see.” Techno pauses. The idea of dunking one’s head into a bowl of food coloring is such a Tommy-esque idea, it’s almost painful. He’s not exactly sure whether he should laugh or cry. “Maybe when you’re older, your mom will let you.”

Janelle frowns unhappily. “But I wanna change it now!” She stamps her feet in protest.

“Time to go, Janelle. You’ve already bothered the man long enough, and besides, we have a subway to catch. Mommy needs to be home before seven, remember.”

The girl pouts but doesn’t say anything more. Her mother bends down to hand off the balloons before she straightens, turning back to Techno. “Once again, I’m really sorry. As a way for making up for it, would you care to have a pastry?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Techno protests weakly. 

The mother frowns, pursing her rosy lips. “I insist,” she says, lightly setting what looks to be a vanilla-and-strawberry-filled croissant down on the table, with a crumpled napkin underneath. And before Techno can pawn it back to her daughter, the two of them are off and out the door. 

Well. That was something.

The pinkette peers out the window, squinting to try and make out their fading silhouettes as the two of them take the stairs down to the subway. As he turns his head, his eyes catch on his reflection, lit by the fluorescent lights of the shop. He tilts his head, examining himself critically. Exhausted emerald eyes stare back at him, worn from late nights and insomnia. He still hasn’t quite adjusted properly to America’s timezones yet, and his sleep schedule has been less than rigid since high school. Techno pinches at the plain, rumpled undershirt that’s mostly obscured by the too-small trenchcoat, leading down to his black dress pants and scuffed shoes. Not the most fashionable of people, but then again, when has he been known for his over-the-top style?

 _Wilbur would have your head, you know, if he saw you dressed like that,_ a voice whispers in his head.

“Well luckily for me,” Techno grits out, flipping his calligraphy book shut more forcefully than he needs to, “Wilbur’s not here anymore.” He shoves the black book into his messenger bag and slings it over his shoulder, standing in one fluid motion. He’s tempted to leave the pastry--after all, there’s no telling what might be in it--but it would be a waste if he just threw it away. It’s still warm in his hands as Techno deftly weaves through the sea of people, mumbling “excuse me’s” and apologies to the various customers. Being 6’7 is nice and all, but there are a fair amount of inconveniences that come along with it.

He shoves open the door and steps out into the cool evening air, making a sharp right back towards NYU’s campus. It’s about a twenty-five minute trip back to the apartments and residence halls, but he doesn’t mind--the scenery is quite nice to observe in the fall, what with the brightly colored trees and rich old buildings. The pinkette takes a bite of the croissant as he walks, making a face at how overly sweet it is.

Phil always did make them better anyways. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make Dream SMP analysis/HC vids at [here.](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC4BbrgaPMd56C-ZK8q1WpEg) Come check it out (support is appreciated, comments would be excellent). For those of you reading, I hope you enjoy! I take constructive criticism!

If you were to ask what kind of person Techno is in a few words, the responses would vary, depending on which one of his family members you approached.

If you were to ask Phil, he’d probably tell you that the pinkette’s loyal and doting, through and through. That even though he might not be the most social of people, there’s no doubt that he’ll stick by you when times are rough, that he’ll lend an ear and listen as you rant about your day---maybe about the strap of your sandal breaking when you took a tumble, or the hem of your robes tearing because they caught on the edge of a table.

If you were to ask Wilbur, the brunette would most likely give a small chuckle in response, before giving some long-winded analogy about how Techno serves as his cornerstone in life. According to Wilbur, he’s not just the silent brooding companion, but rather, somebody you can bounce ideas off of. He’ll sit through your half-strung lyrics and entertain various ideas, enduring it all with a raised eyebrow and a skeptical glance, issuing a challenge of _come on, you can do better than that._

If you were to ask Tommy, he’d probably start ranting about how much of a “bitch” the taller man is, adding in a few lines about how he’s a “prickface” and no doubt comment about how stupid he looks. Maybe even throw in a few comments about how despite being younger, Tommy has gotten “way more girlfriends than he has”, and how “massive” he is (last he remembers though, Techno’s at least half a foot taller than the blonde, and nearly twice as broad). 

And if you were to ask Tubbo, the shortest member of the family would give a friendly smile and a cheery wave in greeting, before talking about how “cool and sick” Techno is, that despite not being related to any of them--Philza has to constantly remind the teen that technically, none of them are related by blood, he just adopted all of them--he’s always seen the taller man as a brother figure. Somebody who’ll listen to him spout bee facts for hours on end, or lend a helping hand in tending his garden.

Though all four members of his family perceive Techno differently, one thing they can all agree on though is how indecisive Techno is. The pinkette always hesitates when making a decision, regardless of magnitude or scale; to him, deciding what color shirt to wear is just as important as selecting an answer on a final exam.

Which is how he finds himself hunched over his rickety desk at 10 PM, having spent the better of the last hour trying to decide what kind of food to order. 

“I could get an unagi bowl,” Techno absently mutters to himself, tapping away at his laptop keyboard. Then he shakes his head. “Nah, the beef udon looks better.” He squints at the screen, trying to make out the images as best he can without his reading glasses. They’re lying haphazardly on the windowsill next to his bed, perched next to his beaten copy of The Art of War. “But the tempura soba noodles don’t sound bad either. And it’s a dollar-fifty cheaper.” He pauses. “Or do I just want to order the Nagasaki braised pork along with the takoyaki balls and shiitake mushrooms as part of a combo meal?”

His fingers drum against the bright bee decal that Tubbo plastered nearly three years prior, the intense yellow and black stripes clashing against the dull grey. Similar-looking stickers are stuck in seemingly arbitrary areas, made by Tommy and Tubbo in their freshman graphic design class. It’s easy to identify who made which: Tubbo’s handiwork is far neater and more polished compared to the crude drawings Tommy slapped onto the lid of his Dell. Techno doesn’t have the heart to remove any of them though, despite how ugly he thinks some of them are. They’re a good reminder of home and of better times, back when the five of them were together.

_And then you decided to lose your shit and take a two-year study abroad trip in a completely foreign country, while also conveniently cutting contact with the three remaining family members you have. Oh, and did I mention that you don’t even speak the language of said foreign country you’re traveling to?_

He winces at the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Wilbur, accusatory and reeking of disappointment. His stomach churns--less of hunger, and more of something akin to guilt. The large man sighs, leaning back in the cheap plastic chair, wincing again at the ominous creak the chair emits. To be fair, a large part of his heavy stature does consist of muscle, what with having done kick-boxing for nearly five years now. (He and Tommy had begged Phil to let them take classes after seeing an exhibition match pop into their video feed. Tommy had quit nearly two weeks in, but the pinkette had stuck through it in high school, only stopping when he went abroad.) He’ll have to look to see if he can get something more comfortable to sit in, alongside that calligraphy pen.

With a huff of dissatisfaction, he stands, groaning as he stretches his sore limbs cramped from stooping over for so long. Already, his quarters are cluttered with possessions; the larger of his two suitcases is shoved against one of the wooden cabinets, various articles of clothing spilling onto the linen carpeting. Books are arbitrarily strewn throughout the room, novels that he’s read so many times that he can pinpoint each and every one of his favorites just by the vague blur of colors from their covers.

_The Princess Bride. The King’s Game. In Cold Blood. How to Read Literature Like a Professor. And Then There Were None._

Stacked neatly on top of the ragged, scruffy couch are the numerous number of _Manhua_ comics Techno had bought here and there from the bookstores he’d visited while wandering Shanghai. That was another thing that piqued his curiosity during his stay: while America was slowly shifting to online written works, China’s bookstores only seemed to flourish. To Techno, it seemed that Eastern culture--likely due to being more conservative than their Western counterparts--vastly preferred physical texts, even amongst teens and young adults. That wasn’t to say that their infrastructure was outdated or that the younger generation were inept when it came to technological matters, in fact, that could not be farther from the truth. Internet cafes and PC bangs played a vital part in Chinese pop culture, though to his knowledge, weren’t as prevalent as they were in South Korea. He’d even popped in to check them out from time to time, Techno wrinkling his nose in disgust at the recollection. The overwhelming, suffocating cigarette fumes coupled with the pulsating LED lights of the various gaming rigs had been more than enough to give him a headache. These establishments also tended to be extremely loud as well, but what had bothered Techno was the sense of claustrophobia that seemed to settle upon him the longer he stayed. Rows upon rows of people, clicking and tapping away, completely immersed in their separate, artificial realities. The pinkette knew the feeling of squandering hours upon hours of time in fictional universes all too well; when your adoptive father is the creator of one of the largest sandbox games in the world, it’s a bit hard _not_ to get sucked into the vortex at some point. And yet, there was something dehumanizing about the entire thing, watching people whittle their lives away, lined up neatly at their stations like some futuristic, dystopian workplace. It was kinda eerie, to be frank. 

“That’s one thing America’s got over them,” Techno says out loud, hoisting his laptop with one hand to sit on the stuffed couch, fingers running over the raggedy grey cushions. “The dormitories here are certainly more posh.” It’s a bit of an adjustment from the sparse apartment he’d been staying in, but it’s not an unwelcome change by any means. In Shanghai, while he liked the simplistic nature of living space he’d been provided with, it was fairly cramped, not unlike the standard suites that college students found themselves holed up in for a year or two. His room here, however, was a pretty big jump forward: the top floor of Snowchester Hall--dubbed that by students because when winter rolled around, the snow setting on slopes of the roof made it look especially pretty--had spacious rooms for each of the students, and felt more lived-in as well. Techno’s room in particular felt much more homely: small square paintings were hung on the walls, along with a torn map of the earth that he hadn’t bothered to tape back together. To the left of his desk is his bed, the blue and white comforter folded neatly under his overstuffed pillow. In the far left corner of the room is where the birch closet and drawers stand, the smaller of his two suitcases shoved underneath. To finish it all off, placed in the middle of the room is the faded couch he’s currently sitting on, his legs crossed and folded neatly under him, the whirling of the fan dispensing heat onto his pig-patterned pajama pants. In his defense though, as childish as they look, the gag gift from Tommy is extremely comfortable, even though the hem of his pants barely reaches his ankles.

Plus, he’s loath to admit it, but the design’s grown on him. The embroidery of joyous, squealing pigs is pretty cute after all. 

A beep on his computer jolts the pinkette back to the present, warning him that he’ll be logged out for inactivity. It’s nearing 10:30 too, meaning that even the latest of stores will be closing soon if he doesn’t make up his mind. If the faint rumbling from his stomach is an indicator of anything, he should probably speed it up too. 

With a few taps and a click to finalize it, the green dashes on his screen confirm that his order of Nagasaki-braised pork, complimentary with a side of miso soup and takoyaki balls, is set to arrive in 20 minutes. Gently, Techno sets down the laptop to the side, swinging around, bare feet rubbing against the white, fluffy carpet. 

Yeah, definitely more luxurious than the barebone apartment in Shanghai. 

He frowns at the empty water jug on his nightstand; he must’ve forgotten to fill it up earlier when he went to go make himself a cup of tea. Past the nightstand, through the half-drawn blinds and even with his poor vision, Techno can make out the blur of lights out the window, where slivers of moonlight snake their way in through the light dusting of clouds. Even though it’s fairly late out, the campus still hosts various students gathering outside. If he squints and tilts his head a bit, the pinkette swears that he can see a couple of students playing a pick-up game of soccer on the grassy field. Phil never did enjoy it when he and Wilbur stayed up late, though in his defense, trying to juggle extracurriculars with an intensive workload means you’re bound to lose some sleep. Shaking his head in bemusement, he slips on his flip flops and turns the door handle, cringing slightly at the creaking noise coming from the hinges. He’ll have to order some lubricant or olive oil to smooth it down. The last thing he wants is the RA getting on his case for disturbing others when he wanders the halls, unable to sleep.

Seven strides to the right brings him into the floor’s common area, where a couple of students are talking jovially, the most animated one being a man firing off rapid Spanish to two of his friends, the trio laughing at some joke Techno can’t quite comprehend with his choppy, middle school Spanish. He pauses for a bit, watching the scene play out. The man reminds him of Wilbur, from the sweeping, broad hand motions he makes to the LAFD beanie and blue track jacket he’s adorned in. The brunette could usually be found in the center of a crowd, jovially chatting away with complete strangers, while Techno tended to avoid socialization like the plague. 

“Hey man, did you want something?”

Techno startles as the tanned skin man stands, grinning at him. The pinkette doesn’t quite know what to make of the twinkling, mischievous look in the other man’s eyes, not unlike how Tommy’s eyes would get before deciding to pull some sketchy prank on one of his family members.

“No no, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to be rude by staring.” He can feel the lump of anxiety already rising in his throat, though it’s been barely less than twenty seconds into the conversation.

“Relax, _princesa_! There’s no need to tense up like a deer in headlights, my friend.” The feral smirk on the other man’s face does nothing to reassure Techno. Though he’s easily taller than the other man, towering nearly a foot over him, it feels as though he’s the one being backed into a corner, not unlike how predators stalk their prey. Calculated, maneuvering like sharks circling a school of fish.

If he didn’t feel so clammy about the entire thing, Techno would’ve felt mildly insulted at the nickname. _Princesa_? Instead, he asks, “Princess? What kind of nickname is that?”

“Well,” Beanie-man says, “seeing as I don’t know your real name, I have to address you somehow.” He inclines his head, assessing him. “Figured it’d suit you, seeing you know, your ‘luscious’ locks of pink hair.” His lips twist amusedly.

Is that meant to be a jab towards his hair color? As far as he’s aware, pink isn’t that popular of a hair color, but it’s not unorthodox by any means. The girl from earlier--Janelle, wasn’t it?--had seemed surprised by his dyed hair, but then again, she also thought that you could change your hair color by dunking your head into a bowl of food coloring, so not the most reputable source by any means. In all honesty, he doesn’t really know why he chose pink as a color. Sure, he doesn’t mind it, but it’s not even his favorite color, blue is. He’d wandered out one day a month or two after Wilbur’s passing, and instead of getting a haircut like he’d planned to, he’d walked in through their front door with his hair a bright rosy shade, pulled into a low ponytail. 

“-and of course, the way you carry yourself, all regal, stiff and upright, is like how a princess would! Hence the nickname, _princesa_. You get me?” The last words are punctuated with an amused giggle from one of the girls behind him, black-nailed hands coming up to cover her chapped lips in a poor attempt to disguise her amusement. 

“Ah.” Techno levels the shorter man with a look, the one reserved usually for Tommy (and occasionally Tubbo, if he’s being particularly blockheaded that day). More of a glare really, laced with impatience and annoyance, an _are you for real?_ kind of look. It’s usually enough to deter somebody from continuing a conversation, spluttering to a halt.

Evidently, Beanie-man doesn’t get the memo. The Latino grins up at him, mischievous and all smiles. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you around, _amigo._ You’d be pretty hard to miss, seeing as you know,” he gestures vaguely at Techno, as if to indicate something about his appearance, “you’re like, as tall and broad as a barn house. Also the pink hair.”

“...thanks?” A brief pause, before Techno elaborates. “I did two years abroad at the Shanghai campus.”

“So you’re one of those foreign exchange students eh?” Beanie-man asks. “Gotta say, you didn’t strike me as the type of person to go abroad.”

Techno lets out a breathy exhale. “With all due respect, I think that assessment is a bit hard to make, seeing as you don’t really know anything about me.”

“The name’s Quackity,” he replies. “And you don’t gotta be so uptight, _cariño_! Why don’t you come join me and my friends here for some conversation once you’re done filling that up?” He motions to the empty water pitcher dangling loosely at Techno’s side. “It sounds like you’ve got some cool stories to share.”

Techno lets out a dry laugh. “I assure you, my life is very drab and mundane. There’s not much to share.”

“Nonsense, nonsense.” A flippant, dismissive wave. “You seem like the kind of person that’s deeper than they let on, that there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

The pinkette pastes on a tight smile onto his face, stomach roiling with a mixture of hunger and something he can’t quite place his finger on. “I think I’ll have to pass, but thank you for your offer. My food’s set to arrive anytime now, so I’ll have to go and grab that. Have a nice evening.” With a small bow, the taller man sets off down the hall, where the water fountains are. His hands are shaking as he sets down the pitcher, pressing the blue button to begin filling the plastic jug with icy, cool water. Another difference there: Easterners seldom drank cold water, instead preferring it to be lukewarm or boiled.

_You look like the kind of person that there’s more to you than that meets the eye._

“Yeah, well I’ve had enough of being psycho-analyzed and dealing with other people’s assumptions for a lifetime,” Techno mutters under his breath. He’s tempted to just wait for the group to disperse before walking through the common room again, but he doesn’t have a jacket on him, and he’s not too keen on freezing to death while trying to go pick up his food. It’s not a far walk--only a measly five-minute trip to the parking lot--but even in the middle of August, the temperatures are already plummeting. Techno hoists the now-full pitcher, drops of water sloshing a bit here and there, and begins the short trek back to his room.

As he passes the small gathering of students, which seems to have grown larger in the time he had been gone, Techno makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder. Quackity’s dark hazel eyes are fixed on him, thoughtful and amused, crinkling with mirth. Conveying a silent challenge: _this is only the beginning, my friend. I will unravel you._

He should’ve just ordered the beef udon bowl earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notch who? Philza Minecraft made Minecraft, the game’s literally named after him!
> 
> I’ll try and get the next chapter out sooner, sorry this one took so long! Until then, take care.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter, I want people to talk to [here.](https://twitter.com/Septetz) As usual, feedback is appreciated!

As of late, Techno’s dreams have been firmly grounded in reality.

That wasn’t always the case, to be clear. When he was younger and spent all his time buried nose-first into a book, his dreams and nightmares by extension were rooted in a whimsical sort-of fantasy. The world of fiction was vastly preferable to the cold reality of the orphanage he’d grown up in, largely because he didn’t mingle well with the other children. He’d only managed to open up a bit once Phil took him in, along with the others he’d subsequently adopted, but even then, Techno spent much of his time alone or aiding Phil in the errant day-to-day chores in comfortable silence. It was still a wonder to him where Tommy and Tubbo got their boundless energy from.

Sometimes, he dreamed of being an elusive courier, tasked with delivering a highly encrypted message to a neighboring kingdom, beseeching them for help. Should he ever be caught with the letter stowed away in his leather satchel or hidden in the breeches of his pants, the honorable thing to do would be to take his own life and destroy the missive along with him. 

Sometimes, he would find himself in the place of a mere lowly cadet, spending hours training and whittling away at target dummies, answering to faceless authoritarian figures and headmasters, struggling to meet the requirements that were shoved upon him. Occasionally, these dreams would devolve into ones racked with terror and hysteria, his chest heaving as he woke up in a clammy sweat, breaths coming out in heaving gasps as somebody--usually Phil or Wilbur--would come and help him calm down: a soothing hand rubbing circles along the small of his back, a hastily brewed cup of Earl Grey pressed into his hands, the heat from the ceramic mug lightly scalding the pale skin of his palms. 

And other times, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t dream at all. He’d just close his eyes and wake up blearily the next morning, long limbs scrambling to try to and thumb over the button to shut off the alarm on his outdated cell phone which hasn’t worked since he accidentally dropped it trying to find a transfer shuttle when he had touched down at the Shanghai airport. He keeps telling himself that he’ll buy a new one eventually, but in his defense, he’s absurdly lazy at times. Also, it hadn’t been that much of an inconvenience overseas, seeing as there was an internet network nearly everywhere he went. Techno’ll have to look into getting one though now he’s back in the States, though he’s not looking forward to breaching the floodgate of unread texts and unanswered phone calls from his family.

The dreams changed once Wilbur died. 

Suddenly, sleeping was no longer an outlet to fictional worlds, but rather, a reliving of the present. And these dreams were far too realistic for his liking. When he awoke, it wasn’t uncommon for the pinkette to spend several minutes to an hour trying to stabilize himself, get a firm grip on anything, clawing at his bedsheets, mind and soul scrambling for purchase. It was one of the reasons why he’d so firmly insisted on getting a single room for himself despite the cost and the lack of availability: the idea of having a roommate watching him have these weekly meltdowns wasn’t something he looked forward to exactly. Techno’s always been a reserved person at best; the idea of having another living human being outside of his family scrutinizing his nightmares isn’t a risk he’s willing to take.

In tonight’s dream though, he’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, frozen as he watches Wilbur calmly sitting cross legged, pouring himself a cup of coffee. For a minute, the pinkette stands there transfixed, taking the sight in. His brother’s face is so full of peace and vibrance, flushed with running blood and tanned from spending a few too many hours sitting on their rickety wooden porch, strumming his beloved guitar and tapping his scuffed shoes to the rhythm. The scene is so wholesome and domestic that he feels like his heart’s been torn from his chest, stomped on, then shoved hastily back in. 

“Good morning to you, Techno.”

He starts a bit. Wilbur peers at him over the top of the leatherbound book he’s reading, one eyebrow quirked in amusement and faint exasperation. “Are you going to stand there all day like a deer in headlights, or are you going to join me? I’m leaving you to wash the dishes and Phil’s coffee mug if you’re still there by the time I’m done. And good luck getting the coffee grinds out; you know how much of a pain in the ass it is.”

Wordlessly, Techno takes a few strides and delicately sits in the chair across from Wilbur. 

“Tea or coffee?”

“What?” Techno asks confusedly. 

“Don’t tell me that me not being here to wrangle you around for two years has left your listening comprehension skills impaired, Techno.” Wilbur quips, a small mocking smile on his face. “I’ll ask again: tea or coffee?”

“...tea.”

Wilbur hums, sliding him a tortoiseshell-patterned cup across the table, complimentary with its own saucer and spoon. Carefully, Techno lifts the fine china to his lips and gives a tentative sip. “Chamomile.” He remarks. The slightly bitter, amber-colored liquid scalds the inside of his mouth a bit, but he does his best not to wince. Apparently, he doesn’t do a good enough job, because Wilbur still shoots him a smug grin. Techno’s stoic expression melts into a glare, rolling his right shoulder slightly as he sets down the cup with more force than necessary. Narrowed emerald eyes meet twinkling umber ones, the two of them locked in a pseudo-staring contest until Wilbur clears his throat. “So,” he asks, “how’s my little brother doing?”

“I’m not your little brother,” Techno responds automatically.

Wilbur waves his hand dismissively. “You’re ignoring the point. How is my ‘older’ brother doing, now that he’s finally got his head out of his ass and returned to the lovely United States of America?”

Techno resists the urge to lean across the table and dump the remainder of his tea over Wilbur’s head. It’s no mystery where Tommy got his cheek and tongue from. Even though Techno was the one who always received higher marks in English (and in any subject honestly, Wilbur was a godawful student), it was Wilbur who usually got the better of him in their mock-arguments. Phil had joked that Wilbur’s greatest weapon was his tongue and that if you weren’t careful, the brunette would slice you to ribbons with his sharp wit. 

Seeing as he’s familiar with this song and dance, Techno instead replies, “Fine. And how are you?”

Wilbur chuckles, sipping at his own cup of dark coffee. “Well, besides being dead and all, it’s pretty nice. None of that existential bullshit that you lot have to worry about.”

Right. Wilbur’s dead. Techno swallows down the lump in his throat and exhales slowly. 

“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here then,” Wilbur continues, turning back to his book. Techno squints, but can’t quite make out glimmering words on the spine of the book. Apparently even in the dream world, he still retains his poor vision. “And it’s always been the same answer. You called for me, and so I answered.”

A wave of anger seeps over Techno. “Pity that you only decided to show up after two years of beating around the bush then, right?” He snarls. A humorless laugh escapes him. “Glad you’re only deciding to show up once I fucked right off to a different continent, spent two years figuring out what the hell to do with my life, then returned back to the US to try and get my act together. What, am I just another bit of emotional baggage to deal with?” The expletive that escapes his mouth is highly uncharacteristic of him, but the pinkette’s too busy seething to care. Wilbur was always so infuriating to deal with. He was less abrasive than Tommy and less apologetic than Tubbo was, but the way Wilbur always spoke in riddles never failed to anger him. 

Wilbur ignores his outburst, instead fixing him with a soft look that instantly shuts Techno up. Even though he knows this isn’t real, even though he knows it’s the dredges of his memory that’s conjuring up this fictional Wilbur, adorned in a soft, goldenrod sweater and red beanie, Techno still finds himself stuck silent by his brother’s probing eyes. 

“You still blame yourself, then,” Wilbur says plainly. Techno sucks in a sharp breath.

“How could I not?”

Wilbur wrinkles his nose in distaste. “And how long will you choose to harbor that erroneous sentiment? Bloody Christ Techno, you’d think that with your intelligence, you would’ve walked out of that mindset ages ago. Always gotta have a monopoly on the self-hatred market, huh?” Wilbur smiles sadly. “You and everybody else in our family.”

Techno leans forward in his chair, placing his elbows on the table. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Less self-blame, more getting your shit together,” Wilbur says. “Stop telling yourself that you’re doing fine when in actuality you’re fraying at the edges and breaking into pieces. Don’t you reckon it’s time that you let somebody in?”

Techno stares incredulously. “You mean to tell me that the solution to my problems is to find a girlfriend? Have you been speaking to Tommy as well recently?”

“Techno.” Wilbur smiles at him. “You’ve pushed people away for so long. Isn’t that why you sent yourself away? Isn’t that why even though it’d be more convenient for you, you still refused to repair your phone, so that people couldn’t reach out to you? Even though people still wanted to try and get to know you better, you still hold them at arm’s length? Time and time again, you construct these walls around your heart, tucking it safely away, making sure that nobody can get too close to you. It took years of wearing you down, the four of us hacking away to get you to let us in.” He pauses, lightly drumming his fingers against his thigh. “I’m not saying that you have to find a romantic partner or a significant other or something like that, though I’m sure that that blonde girl from our sophomore year would more than willing to help you-”

“We agreed to never speak of that instance ever again,” Techno hisses, cheeks flushing slightly. 

Wilbur laughs at that, and Techno closes his eyes, savoring the slightly shrill choking noises that his brother emits. A pang in his heart reminds him of how much he misses his brother, how the two of them used to have their tell-signs and own language, being able to reach each other like the palms of their hands. 

“Seriously, go out and make some friends or something. You can’t shut off everybody forever, you know. It’s no way to live your life.” Wilbur hesitates, before continuing, voice dropping. “And...call Dad some time, alright? He’s reached out to you on your trip, but when you didn’t answer, he figured you needed some space away from the family. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss you.”

“I’ll try,” Techno says, softly. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to do it anytime soon, but who is he to refuse the wishes of the dead?

“Good.” Wilbur extends his arm, hand lightly brushing over his, Techno encapsulating it like it’s a lifeline. Maybe it is. “I can’t stay much longer, but I just want you to know something.”

A wave of fear washes over Techno at the proclamation of Wilbur’s departure, but he manages to quash it. “What is it?”

“Try to forgive yourself alright?” Wilbur’s smile grows a bit strained at the edges, but his eyes shimmer with something akin to hope and care. “You can’t cling to your grief forever. And I love you.”

_ I love you. _

Tears prick Techno’s eyes. “This is insane,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re not even real. This is just a dream, isn’t it?”

Wilbur shakes his head. “This is a dream, yes. But why would that make it any less real?”

_ Because you’re gone. Because you died, two years ago, leaving us to pick up the broken pieces of our family. Because once you were gone, it felt as though I was missing my other half, as if my soul had been ripped from my ribcage, then shoved back in hastily. _

Aloud, he says, “There’s a reason why dreams are called dreams: because it’s the fictional world our minds create when we rest.”

Wilbur hums noncommittally. “Perhaps that’s true. But I’d like to think that dreams are merely an extension of what could’ve been: that though they might never come true, they allow us to experience scenarios and lifetimes that are still in this reality. It’s much more interesting than chalking it up to just being a figment of our imagination, wouldn’t you say?”

“That doesn’t change the fact that this entire thing isn’t real though. You’re not Wilbur: he’s gone.”

In the distance, Techno can make out a faint knocking sound, as though somebody’s rapping their knuckles against his doorframe.

“I think you ought to go and answer that, don’t you think? It’s not good to leave somebody waiting for too long.”

As if to punctuate his point, the knocking stops, then resumes, louder than before. 

Techno stands hastily, nearly knocking over his teacup in the process. He allows himself one more glance around the kitchen, taking it all in: from the crude drawings he and Wilbur made when they were younger attached to the fridge with kiddie magnets to the slight burn marks on their rickety dining table when Tommy accidentally set fire to his backpack with a fluid lighter. His chest aches a bit with unspoken words and fond memories. Maybe one day he’ll muster up the courage to come back here in person.

“Will I see you again?” Techno asks, trying to ignore the fluttering hope in his chest. 

“I’ll be here for you, when you need me.” Comes the response. Not very telling, but it satisfies him for now. “Until next time, then.”

And the world around him dissolves into white as he leaves the kitchen, the rustling of pages and the clanking of crockery fading into nothingness.


End file.
